Chapter Text
Bucky was alone.
That’s what he told himself. Had to tell himself, at least. Because if he didn’t-
Bucky grinded his teeth, giving his head a firm shake.
No. He wasn’t going to dwell too hard on this.
He sat at the small dining table of his Washington, D.C. townhouse, an expensive glass of whiskey clutched precariously in his vibranium hand. His fingers curled too tight around the delicate cup, the sound of his finger tinking against the glass ringing throughout the empty halls. He hadn’t even taken a sip. The ice had already melted, the amber liquid untouched and luke warm.
He didn’t drink. Not really. He couldn’t even get drunk anymore, thanks to the bastardized serum running through his veins. He just needed something to hold, something to ground him from the mess he’d made.
Because if there was one thing he knew about himself, it was the fact that he always ruined anything remotely good and wholesome in his life.
The town house was quiet like it always was, his super hearing being able to detect the smallest creak and groan from its old bones. It was always too quiet, like an old ghost just existing long outside its time.
Bucky snorted, finger picking up its anxious rhythm against the glass.
How ironic.
He hadn’t turned the lights on when he’d gotten home from Walter Reed. He didn’t need to, not someone like him. Someone with his...expertise and experience. The shadows were eerily familiar-constant, grounding, necessary.
But even in the safety of the dark, his mind wouldn’t stop its torment. Wouldn’t cease the constant loop that was haunting his thoughts.
“I love you, buddy.”
The words replayed over and over, rattling in his skull.
He shouldn’t have said it. Shouldn’t have said those words. Those tantalizing, too close to the surface words. He’d spent decades keeping those feelings locked down behind blackened walls, shoved so deep inside that they couldn’t claw their way back out.
And yet...
Yet he’d foolishly said it anyway. Potentially ruined the only relationship he had left in this century. The only one that truly meant anything to him, that is.
Bucky exhaled, rubbing a weary hand over his face. He should have run. He should have gone back to New York, to a city where he could disappear. Because what if...
No.
Sam...
Sam wouldn’t come after him. He wouldn’t. He had too much on his plate, with Torres laid up and having to deal with the aftermath at the cherry orchard.
Sam didn’t have time to deal with Bucky’s bullshit. He had more important things to deal with, not—
“You really just gonna sit there, brooding in the dark like a damn Batman knockoff?”
FUCK.
Bucky tensed, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on edge.
He could feel how his stomach dropped, how his heart suddenly lurched into the back of his throat as his adrenaline surged.
No one should’ve been able to get in. Not in here.
Bucky had reinforced security systems that would have made Natasha proud, various weapons stashed in places no normal person would think to look. He had super soldier hearing, not to mention his newly appointed security due to his new profession.
And yet—he hadn’t heard him.
Of course he hadn’t. That sneaky so of a-
Slowly, Bucky turned his head toward the voice.
And standing there in the doorway of his kitchen, arms crossed over his chest with a smug smirk like he had all the time in the world, was Sam.
Bucky’s pulse roared in his ears, a cold sweat startling to prickle across his skin.
“How the fuck did you get in here?” Bucky internally winced at the gruffness in his voice, the defensive tone biting and cool.
Sam tilted his head, eyes sharp with amusement. “Oh, come on, man. I’m the only one that could ever sneak up on you. Don’t act so surprised.”
Bucky gritted his teeth, annoyance surging as he battled with his emotions. It was an unfortunate truth and they both knew it.
Sam was the only one who could slip past his defenses, move into his space without setting off every goddamn alarm in his head.
And his fucking house, apparently.
And that? Well...
That scared the ever-living hell out of him.
Bucky swiveled on his heels, trying to quicky crush down the emotions that were still too close to the surface. His hands curled into fists, the glass in his hand creaking under the strain.
“Sam—”, Bucky licked his lips, fighting to keep his voice plain and expression carefully neutral. “What are you doing here? It’s almost midnight and I know you’ve got an obscene amount of bullshit to go over, considering you wrecked Washingtons most prized-”
Sam just stared at him, unreadable and unphased by his attempt at a snarky tone.
And there it was again, that nagging feeling at the back of his skull, roaring back to life with a horrifying vengeance that made his knees weaken. It was screaming at him, berating him, that he’d fucked this all up, that Sam was here to cut ties. Call him a freak. That he should just get the hell out of town, never show his face-
“Say it again,” Sam said, voice low, controlled.
Bucky felt himself tense further, blinking hard. His stomach twisted, hand beginning to tremble slightly around his whiskey glass.
“Sam,” Bucky whispered lowly, barely audible. “I don’t-”
Sam took a step forward, chocolate eyes flashing in the dimly lit room. “Say it, Buck.”
Bucky felt his throat close up in panic, his breath coming in shallow, rapid, spurts. The room began to feel claustrophobic, as if the walls were beginning to close in around him, squeezing him in an inescapable vice.
“Sam-”, Bucky choked out, taking a small step back. “I... I can’t.”
Sam didn’t waver; eyes locked onto the way Bucky was slowly trying to create distance. “Why?”
Bucky clenched his jaw, hands starting to shake in barely contained panic. He quickly set his glass down before he could break it, fists clenching at his sides.
“Because-”, Bucky struggled to suck in a steady breath of air, voice uncharacteristically hoarse. “Because if I say it again, I can’t take it back, Sam.”
There it was. The truth that he’d tried to stuff down for so long.
Sam’s gaze softened just slightly, taking a small step forward.
“You don’t have to take it back,” Sam murmured softly, hands slightly outreached.
Bucky shook his head fast, chest rising and falling too quick, panic creeping up his spine like wildfire.
“You don’t get it,” Bucky snapped, voice shaking. “I can’t—” His breath stuttered. “I can’t be this.”
Sam’s expression didn’t change, didn’t falter in that typical fashion that was just so Sam. He just stepped forward, slow, steady, deliberate.
“You’re scared,” Sam said softly, not quite a question but not quite a statement. He tilted his head, gaze still soft and gentle. “But not of me.”
Bucky’s breath hitched, feeling his eye begin to prickle with unshed tears.
Fuck.
Sam kept his slow pace forward until they were almost touching, close enough that Bucky could feel his warmth and smell the faint scent of his cologne. It was woodsy and sharp and grounding and just so-.
So Sam.
“You ain’t gotta be afraid, Buck.”
Bucky flinched at the nickname, his knees nearly giving out. He could feel those annoying tears burning at his eyes, how his breathing was beginning to quicken. Bucky sniffed, blinking hard to hide his growing embarrassment and-
And whatever else it was that he was feeling.
And Sam being Sam, he saw. Because of course he did. Because when DIDN’T Sam see him? See everything he tried to hide away?
Sam’s eyes widened at the look in Bucky’s eyes and suddenly he was upon him, hand coming up to grasp at his jaw in a gentle caress.
His hand was firm at the base of Bucky’s jaw, steady and... real.
Bucky’s breath stuttered.
His whole body felt too tight, too hot, too wired with fear and something else just beneath it—something he wasn’t sure he knew how to name.
Sam’s fingers drifted across his skin, warm and grounding, his thumb brushing slow circles over his pulse point like he could steady it with just a gentle touch.
Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
Because if he let himself believe this was real—that Sam meant it, that he wasn’t just humoring him, wasn’t just saying what he thought Bucky needed to hear—then what the fuck was he supposed to do with that?
He had spent his whole life convincing himself this wasn’t an option.
That he wasn’t allowed to want this.
Not when he was a soldier, an assassin, a man whose hands had done things he could never wash clean, the red in his ledger too bloody and saturated.
Not when he was now a congressman, someone the world was constantly watching. Someone who couldn’t afford to make mistakes, especially with his laundry list of errors.
And definitely not when the only man he had ever let himself love was standing in front of him, telling him that-
That it was okay.
Bucky swallowed hard, his voice hoarse, uneven.
“Sam, I—”
Sam didn’t rush him. Didn’t push. Just stayed exactly where he was, his grip steady and patient.
“You don’t have to be scared, Buck.”
Bucky’s stomach clenched. Not because of what Sam said, but because of how fucking much he meant it. Because Sam wasn’t scared.
He wasn’t afraid of what the world might think about a black Captain America and a gay ex-assassin turned congressman. Sam wasn’t afraid of what people would say, how they would twist it, how they would look at them like they didn’t belong. Like they were-
Fuck.
But Bucky was, because Bucky knew what people thought of men like him. He knew what the world said about men who let themselves be soft, be pliable. Be-
Sam must have seen the panic creeping in because he tightened his grip on Bucky’s jaw just slightly, enough to pull him back into the moment.
“You’re in your head, Buck. Talk to me.” Sam’s voice was soft in the dark, a soothing balm over Bucky’s growing panic.
Bucky exhaled slowly, his chest tight, voice barely above a whisper.
“People will talk, Sam.”
Sam didn’t even blink, no sign of hesitation.
“They already do.”
Bucky let out a rough, humorless laugh, tears threatening to spill.
“This is different.”
Sam hummed, considering him. Then, carefully: “Why?”
Bucky’s throat went tight at the question, because he didn’t have a good answer. Or maybe he did—maybe he was just too much of a coward to say it.
Sam stepped in closer, slow and deliberate, forcing Bucky to look at him, his fingers gently lifting his chin.
“Buck, if you don’t want this—if you don’t want me—you gotta tell me now, okay? Because it’s okay if you don’t.”
Bucky’s breath hitched. His stomach flipped.
Because that? That was a lie.
He did want this.
Wanted Sam. Had wanted him for longer than he could admit, longer than he had even let himself think about.
And Sam? Sam was giving him an out. Giving him a choice. A chance to say no, to walk away, to keep pretending, because that was just who Sam was.
Bucky swallowed hard, fighting down the panic threatening to take over.
He could do this. He wanted this, wanted Sam. He was RIGHT here-
Bucky threw caution to the wind, his hands fisting themselves into Sam’s shirt as he drug him forward, crashing their mouths together like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
Sam groaned, low and deep, kissing him back just as hungry, just as desperate.
And fuck, did that do something to Bucky, something warm and feral coiling deep in his gut.
Then Sam was slowly walking Bucky backwards, step by step, until his knees hit the edge of the bed.
Bucky let himself fall, watching as Sam followed him down.
Sam moved like a man on a mission, crawling over Bucky and bracing his hands on either side of his head, caging him beneath him. His lips trailed heated kisses down Bucky’s jaw, nipping at his exposed throat and collarbone.
Bucky’s breath shuddered out of him, a low whine breaking through his parted lips.
Fuck. It had been so long since...
“You still with me, baby?” Sam murmured against his skin, voice low and soothing.
Bucky whimpered, tossing his head back as another gasp left his mouth, head nodding.
Sam grinned against his chest, pressing open-mouthed kisses over his ribs, being slow and careful as he continued his slow exploration downwards.
“That’s it. Just let go, Buck. Let me take care of you.”
And fuck, Bucky wanted that.
Wanted to stop fighting, stop running, stop pretending he didn’t need this. Didn’t WANT this.
Sam’s hands slid lower, teasing over Bucky’s waist, his hips, the curve of his-
And just like that, Bucky tensed. Not enough to be noticeable, at least not to him. But just enough, because of course Sam noticed. Sam noticed everything.
He stopped his endeavor, his weight shifting as he pulled back just enough to look Bucky in the eye.
“You good?” Sam asked quietly, voice thick with concern.
Bucky’s breath hitched, because he was so used to being handled, to being taken, to being used.
But Sam?
Here he was, waiting. Watching. Giving him a choice.
Bucky swallowed hard, chest rising and falling too fast. He forced himself to nod, focusing on relaxing his muscles.
Sam didn’t move; eyes still locked onto his. “I need to hear you say it, baby.”
Bucky let out a shaky breath, his hands tightened around Sam’s arms in a desperate and terrified grip. He didn’t want to mess this up, to lose this.
Bucky licked his lips as he whispered, so quiet it was barely audible in the otherwise silent room.
“Please, Sam.” Bucky said, voice broken and vulnerable.
Sam let out a low groan, slowly leaning forward and pressing their foreheads together, his breath softly peppering Bucky’s face.
“I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you.”
Bucky whimpered at the soft but commanding tone, his whole body melting beneath Sam into a mailable puddle.
And then Sam leaned forward, crashing their lips together in a heated and sloppy kiss.